


oh careful you

by Azaphod



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Body Worship, Canon Asexual Character, Friends with benefits but not really, M/M, Mild Overstimulation, Oral Sex, Tender Sex, Trans Male Character, Vaginal Fingering, research era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-18 01:41:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28735128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azaphod/pseuds/Azaphod
Summary: But tonight Jon puts a hand on his thigh. High enough that Tim raises an eyebrow of mildly surprised intrigue, and then higher still, creeping along the inseam of his trousers with deft fingers. The quiet voices from the television are forgotten, and any conversation between them with it besides the quick ‘Can I…?’ and ‘Yes, please’they share in the breath before their lips meet.It changes the script a little, but Tim can work with that.
Relationships: Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker
Comments: 9
Kudos: 126





	oh careful you

**Author's Note:**

> Both Tim and Jon are trans, words used for their parts are; folds, cunt, chest.

Occasionally, Tim’s night will go like this.

Jon invites him over. In that stiff and mechanical way of his, because the other researchers are close enough to be within earshot and the thought of being perceived by other people is enough to have Jon cringing. 

Tim accepts as he always does; with a smile and a wink, like scripture, and they share the tube ride back to Jon’s in companionable silence. 

He likes to use the quiet to watch Jon, tense, glaring down at his phone as if it had personally crossed him. There is an unmistakable beauty to him in the dim, shifting lights of the underground; what once was hidden away under the dark lines of his face, the ones that age him, paint silver streaks through his hair--are brought to the surface in the orange and yellow hues mixing with clinical blue and steel greys around them. 

Jon catches his eye, and Tim smiles faintly, in what he hopes is a disarmingly charming way, and Jon’s scowl comes right on cue, predictable. It’s only once they breach the threshold of Jon’s flat does the man finally begin to relax out of his rigid form, his body coming untangled. 

Sometimes Jon lets him help with the cooking, but he’s a territorial bastard in the kitchen, so it rarely happens. Either way Tim makes sure to hover by a counter while Jon bounces around the cramped space. His movements are that of an actor; flourishing and dramatic, preparing a meal that’s just a little too time consuming or showy for a weekday. Tim never comments on it. 

Instead he fills the silence of Jon’s empty flat with his voice, chattering away about anything and _everything_ , meaninglessly, never anything important. There are invisible boundaries he’s been painstakingly careful to avoid, he can see the dark things lurking in Jon’s eyes, and he knows he has ones to match himself. These nights are safe from them. 

So Tim talks, laughs, and crows. Jon banters back something scathing with a wry smile, and the back and forth continues until a timer chimes. It’s all part of the act.

Dinner is taken on the sofa, with plates of some aromatic chicken and rice dish set out on the coffee table. Jon doesn’t own a dining table, which Tim has teased him over in the past. It’s nice though, to be close enough to feel the warmth of Jon’s thigh next to his, easy to watch the bob of his throat as he drinks from his glass. Distracting, but nice.

They get a show playing, something with a soft spoken narrator in someplace very green and very blue. Jon likes documentaries--so does Tim, but he’ll always make a show of groaning over whatever Jon’s picked for the night, to keep up his appearance. _As if it matters here_. 

Jon settles back against the sofa, his body curled at an impossible angle, yet close enough to touch, eyes transfixed to the screen.

And that _could_ be the rest of the night, all the motions acted out accordingly. They could fall asleep right there on the sofa, and wake up early with terrible back pain. They’d go to work and Jon would spend the whole day grumbling and rubbing his back, and Tim would tease him about being an old man, even though he’d be smarting just as badly. 

And that would be that. 

But tonight Jon puts a hand on his thigh. High enough that Tim raises an eyebrow of mildly surprised intrigue, and then higher still, creeping along the inseam of his trousers with deft fingers. The quiet voices from the television are forgotten, and any conversation between them with it besides the quick ‘ _Can I…?_ ’ and ‘ _Yes, please’_ they share in the breath before their lips meet. 

It changes the script a little, but Tim can work with that.

Jon pulls him in with an eagerness that’s almost startling. His hands tug, insistent, at Tim’s clothes, though falter into distraction as Tim bites at his lip. A roll of heat coils in his gut, and he’s suddenly too hot in his own skin. The feeling only keeps growing, burning hotter. He claims the moan that spills out of Jon, feeling it vibrate against his teeth, feeling heady with smug satisfaction, but the urge to speak it aloud vanishes as the need to lick into Jon’s mouth crashes over him. 

It isn't long before he's being pushed away, then ushered up and toward the bedroom. 

Jon falls back against the mattress, leaving his shirt half unbuttoned as he gets distracted shucking his trousers the rest of the way down his thighs. It leaves the fabric clinging to his shoulders, ruffled. It’s a good look--a _very_ good look, tastefully debauched. 

When he catches Tim just sitting there admiring the view, Jon huffs impatiently. 

“Are you going to make me do _all_ the work?” he snarks, hauling Tim closer and grabbing boldly for his belt. 

Their little trysts always start and end this way. Tim wants to savor these moments, the intimacy of their bodies together, the shared gasps and the exploratory touches from trembling hands. But whenever this starts to happen, this divergence from their assigned scripts, Jon tenses up. He tries to course correct, speeding them back on track as if he had someplace better to be later. If Tim hadn’t known him so well he might’ve been offended.

But Tim _knows_ Jon. He knows sex isn’t something he does, not regularly. Not with just anyone. Tim knows his experiences are limited, and the first time they ended up in bed together it had been a rush; too fast, too rough, made frantic by overwhelmed emotions. 

(That had been Tim’s fault. Though in his defense, he had thought his fantasy of getting his prickly coworker--the very one he just _might_ be in love with--into his bed was just that; an _extremely_ unlikely fantasy.)

The long winded, and slightly convoluted point that Tim had come to being: Jon likes structure, routine. He was imitating that first time over and over again, because that’s what he thought was expected. Whenever Tim tried to change the steps of the act, Jon panicked, doubled down, like a bull in a very unfortunate china shop. 

That’s not how night is going to go. 

The click of his belt coming loose has Tim startling back to life, shimmying his hips to help Jon wiggle him out of his trousers. Tim stops him before he can get much further, pushing him down into the bed fully. Jon goes easily, his hands dancing restlessly over Tim’s shoulders and arms, unsure where to land. 

Tim goes to straddle his knees, and this time he gets to admire the view of Jon spread out below him, short hair fanning out across the bed sheets. He is so beautiful, Tim wishes he could tell him. 

Jon’s face tilts up expectantly at Tim, and he frowns when Tim strokes gently over his arms, all the way down to his wrists, cradling Jon’s palms and bringing them up to his lips. Jon jerks instinctively, but Tim holds fast, determined. His frown only deepens as Tim kisses each of his knuckles, and repeats the action with the other hand. 

"Tim," Jon says, managing to cram startled and impatient and curious all into one word.

“I’ve got you,” Tim soothes, letting go of Jon’s hands in favor of kissing him, to shut him up, mostly. Jon makes a disgruntled sound into it, but Tim simply winds a hand up into his hair and tugs. It’s a dirty trick, but effective as it stuns him into silence, lips parting on a gasp.

He slips his tongue into Jon's mouth, paying only half a mind to the quiet moan Jon fails to stifle. Carefully, and half blindly, he eases the haphazardly unbuttoned shirt from Jon’s shoulders. Jon's body is neither fragile nor frail, but he treats him with a sacrality regardless; reveling in every inch of imperfect skin that is revealed to him, consumed with that familiar, frantic urge-- _need_ to touch him everywhere at once.

He breaks away to take a deep, shuddering breath to calm the buzzing in his hands.

Jon blinks back at him owlishly. He’s all but given up on trying to pull at Tim now, his hands twisted into the sheets as he stares, a piercing thing, like he’s trying to puzzle out Tim’s intentions.

Dipping his hands down to Jon’s hips, he hopes he makes them abundantly clear, holding Jon steady as he tries to lift into the touch, trying valiantly to wrest control over again. Tim lets him try, smoothing over his hip bones with broad strokes of his thumbs until Jon relents, a quizzical expression on his face. 

He smiles, and when his hands travel up, Jon doesn’t twitch into it. He can practically hear Jon trying to adjust to this change of pace, to pull up the right scripted response to it, but the thoughts keep melting away with every touch. 

These are deliberate things, every pause punctuated with a kiss, the gentle bite of his teeth and dig of his fingertips into muscle. 

His path leads him past Jon’s shoulders, where Jon looks at him with huge, blown pupils. He brushes knuckles over a column of Jon's throat, and feels him swallow, shiver. Jon’s jaw fits so soundly in his palms, like their bodies had been made a perfect match. 

"Tim," Jon says again, directionless and senseless. His voice reverberates down Tim’s wrists, rattling through his bones. 

Tim kisses him, sweetly, slowly. 

Jon whimpers.

When he leans back the _look_ Jon pins him with--it flays him open, lays him bare. It fills that open void within him with a warmth that’s nearly dizzying.

“Oh,” Jon says. 

Tim wants to agree, but for once, he cannot bring words to his lips.

He speaks with his touch instead, a caress across Jon’s cheek, marveling momentarily at the flutter of his eyelashes. Then like the ebbing tide, pulling him back down the way he came. He anchors his hands around Jon’s ribs, holding him tightly. His head rests between the swell of his chest, ghosting a kiss over the skin that jumps with stuttering breaths. 

Jon murmurs faintly, inaudible, his back arching into Tim’s touch. That gets him moving again, albeit slowly; trailing lazy, open mouthed kisses across his chest until he reaches a nipple, and takes it into his mouth. The sound Jon makes is soft, not wanton, but contented and the careful graze of his teeth draws another breathy noise that is just as sweet. 

When he slides further down, Jon spreads his legs with the barest of encouragement. Tim fits between them perfectly, both hands spread out over his thighs. His muscles flex as Tim leans in to mouth along his stomach, completely ignoring where he must be hot and aching for touch to tease the soft crease of his inner thighs. 

He noses all the way down to the crook of a knee, pulling it up over his shoulder, spreading Jon even wider, putting him on display. He’s wet and hard, and there’s a constant little tremble to his thighs. Like he wants to lock his legs around Tim and drag him in by force, but he’s trying hard not to. 

Tim rewards him with a sucking kiss to the inside of his thigh, then another, and more after that; pulling a melody of quiet, almost stifled whines from him. When Tim gets close to his cunt, almost, _almost_ touching, he gasps.

" _Tim_ ,"

The upward lilt of a question in his tone makes Tim look up to meet his gaze. 

Jon's face is flushed, his lips reddened. His eyes are dark, dazed, and he blinks slowly before he speaks again, and even then it's a simple-- "Please?" 

Tim smiles up at him, a tidal wave of love flooding through his veins and making him light headed. He presses his lips to Jon's thigh one last time, "Of course, lovely." 

The wounded noise Jon makes when he finally strokes his fingers through his slick folds is music to Tim's ears, punctuated by the breathy little inhale he makes as the tip of his tongue teases the hood of his dick. Tim can feel Jon's hand hover somewhere above his head, just barely disturbing his ruffled curls, before it retreats to grip the sheets again. 

He doesn’t try to lift his hips to urge Tim on. Now he’s practically melted into the sheets, pliant and sweet. His body trembles and shakes, taking only what Tim is willing to give him. He groans, low in his throat, as Tim sucks softly on his dick, finally pushing his fingers inside, setting a slow, methodical pace. 

“Will you touch yourself for me? Can you, please?” Jon asks with a gasp, his voice broken and Tim moans in response; _oh hell yes he can_. 

Tim wiggles a hand down the front of his underwear, almost absentmindedly as he focuses on taking Jon apart. He whines around Jon’s cock, surprised to find himself already teetering at the brink. The heat in the pit of his stomach turns molten and he ruts against his palm. 

Desperation turns his movements sloppy, steadily losing any sense of composure but it only seems to spur Jon on. His back arches softly off the bed, a punched out plea dying on his tongue as he shudders all over, spasming around Tim’s fingers as he comes. 

Tim keeps fucking him through it, drunk on the way Jon clenches down on him, the way his gasp hitches higher and higher. Jon’s fingers curl into his hair then, sudden and shaking; twining through his long locks, not pulling, stroking so tenderly, so carefully that Tim can do nothing but whimper and tip over the edge all at once. 

He rests his head against one of Jon’s thighs, panting, until Jon urges him up with grasping fingers. He’s just as loose limbed and clumsy as Tim, as he kisses him sweetly, indulgently licking his own taste from Tim’s lips. Tim moans as one of his hands slides down into his boxers, wasting no time in swiping through the slick mess and pressing two fingers inside without preamble; thumb rubbing insistently at his sensitive dick until he’s all but sobbing into Jon’s mouth. 

It doesn’t take much for him to come again, riding Jon's fingers until he hits that knife's edge where too much becomes painful. Jon smiles serenely at him, glowing with a hazy happiness. 

He falls back onto the sheets and Jon, gathering him up into his arms. Jon offers a half hearted mumble of protest, his voice so slurred with sleep it’s unintelligible. 

“What was that, handsome?” Tim sighs into his hair. 

Jon mumbles again, then he leans back. His hair is a mess, clinging to his face where sweat has made it damp, and sticking up everywhere else. His eyelids droop heavily, but they focus on Tim with intensity, the tip of his tongue poking out from between his lips.

Tim’s breath catches in his throat. There’s a pause as Jon collects himself enough to force out a single word. 

“Stay?” he asks, and Tim wants to ask him how he does that; how he turns a word into a myriad of unspoken things, quiet as a confession. 

Tim kisses the top of his head, hides his shaking by tightening his grip around Jon and _daring_ the world to try and pull him away. “Of course.”


End file.
